You're Worth The Fall
by ForsakenValkyrie7
Summary: What if Chauncey and Hank discovered devilcraft not long after swearing fealty and created a collar infused with devilcraft to harness the fallen angels as immortal slave labour and therefore ending the days of Cheshvan? And what happens when Hank's secret lover gives birth to the next in their bloodline? When Nora grows up, will she fall for a certain dark fallen angel?
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello readers, it's been far too long! This is my first fanfic in quite a long time and since I have a bit of spare time on my hands, I thought I'd do a fanfic on Hush Hush, as you do. I am quite team Pora or Natch (Both sound EXTREMELY bizarre) or whatever NoraxPatch related mooshy ooshy name thing y'all wanna call them.**

 **Which is why I thought, what if the story was set back in the olden days? So here it is, and I hope you all enjoy the story!**

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 ** _Loire Valley, France 1565_**

The boy watched the nephil from the monument he was perched on while the rain pelted down his torso went unnoticed. His dark eyes took in a farmer's daughter emerging from behind Chauncey, scurrying off through the grassy banks of the Loire River, mud slinging on her skirt as she hurried off. The boy's mouth curved into a sinister half grin as he watched the nephil slug on his boots and made his way back from which he had come; the Chateau de Langeais.

It'd been months since the boy first laid eyes on Chauncey. The days turned into weeks, and finally into months by the time the boy was certain that Chauncey would make a fine vassal for the upcoming Cheshvan. A fine one indeed.

As Chauncey ranged closer, he stepped easily over the sunken graves and humus of the cemetery. The boy knew Chauncey ventured out from his chateau and returned through the thickest of fogs without the issue of getting lost. He knew his lands well, having grown up in this part of the countryside.

The rain started to pour and the boy lifted his hand to wipe the rain clear from his face and in that moment Chauncey snapped his head in the direction on the monument. The boy's hand froze as Chauncey's eyes raked on his body, deciphering whether or not the boy posed as a statue of the monument. An almost inaudible chuckle escaped the boy. To appear as an angel on a monument? The irony caused the boy to grin through the rain at Chauncey before dropping to the ground, his black hair dripping from the rain.

Chauncey's hand crept to the hilt of his sword. "Who goes there?"

The boy's mouth hinted at a smile. It'd take a lot more than a blunt sword to end him.

"Do not play games with the Duc de Langeais," Chauncey warned. "I asked for your name. Give it."

"Duc?" The boy leaned against a twisted willow tree. "Or bastard?"

Chauncey unearthed his sword. "Take it back! My father was the Duc de Langeais. I'm the Duc de Langeais now," he added clumsily, and cursed himself for it. Another grin almost escaped the boy, but he pushed his inner amusement aside.

The boy gave a lazy shake of his head. "Your father wasn't the old Duc."

Chauncey seethed at the outrageous insult. "And _your_ father?" he demanded, extending the sword. He didn't yet know all his vassals, but he was learning. He would brand the family name of this boy to memory. "I'll ask once more," he said in a low voice, wiping a hand down his face to clear away the rain. "Who are you?"

The boy walked up and pushed the blade aside. It must have dawned on Chauncey that the boy was older than him because his eyes briefly widened. Chauncey must have also made the assumption that the boy was of poor class due to the peasant trousers hanging low on his waist. And because of the lack of footwear.

"One of the devil's brood," the boy answered.

Chauncey's face whitened a touch. "You're a raving lunatic," he said through his teeth. "Get out of my way."

The boy was losing his patience. The boy's eyes held Chauncey's and for a brief moment, because of the boy's hesitation, Chauncey's guard was down, allowing the boy to have full access to his mind. The boy planted an image of the ground suddenly tilting in Chauncey's head. He hunched over, his fingernails grinding into his thighs, and looked up at the boy, blinking and gasping, clearly trying to make sense of what was happening.

The boy crouched down to level their eyes. "Listen carefully. I need something from you. I won't leave until I have it. Do you understand?"

Gritting his teeth, Chauncey shook his head in disbelief. He attempted to spit at the boy, but it trickled down his chin.

The boy clasped his hands around Chauncey's, making him believe that the boy's hands were scorching him. Chauncey cried out.

"I need your oath of fealty," the boy said. "Bend on one knee and swear it."

Chauncey choked on a laugh and the boy planted an image of someone kicking his leg from behind. Chauncey's right leg bucked and he stumbled forward into the mud. He then bent sideways and retched.

"Swear it," the boy repeated.

Chauncey suddenly laughed, but there was no humour. The boy continued causing Chauncey to suffer from nausea and weakness and made sure he sensed it as well. Or else where would the fun be in that?

"Lord, I become your man," Chauncey said venomously. And it was finished.

Inside, the boy's dark heart pumped rapidly, the excitement proved too great. The yearning of being able to feel someone's touch or even the feel of this forsaken rain was what the boy had dreamed of since his fall.

The boy raised Chauncey to his feet. "Meet me here at the start of the Hebrew month of Cheshvan. During the two weeks between new and full moons, I'll need your service."

"A… _fortnight_?" Chauncey's whole frame trembled under the weight of his rage. " _I am the Duc de Langeais!_ "

"You are a nephil," the boy said with a sliver of a smile. This exchange proved too amusing to hold back any further.

"What did you say?" he spoke with icy venom.

"You belong to the biblical race of Nephilim. Your real father was an angel who fell from heaven. You're half mortal." The boy's dark eye's lifted, meeting Chauncey's. "Half fallen angel."

Chauncey looked paler than before. "Who are you?"

The boy turned, walking away. He heard Chauncey falling to his knees. Now, as the boy had planned, Chauncey was able to witness the two thick black scars on the back of the boy's torso as he walked away.

"Are you – fallen?" Chauncey called. "You're wings have been stripped, haven't they?"

The boy didn't turn back, his eyes narrowing at the mention of his scars. At the mention of the only _pain_ he ever _felt_.

"This service I'm to provide," Chauncey shouted. "I demand to know what it is!"

At that, the air resonated with the boy's low laughter.

* * *

 _ **A century later**_

Chauncey felt his own feet trudging down the damp hills of the Loire Valley, exhaustion eating away at his mind, his breaths hollow and dry. His clothes were ruined, his hair in a mess and he was missing a shoe. Clearly the angel saw fit to leave him in the fields unequipped with his belongings for his own amusement. What stories would he tell his fellow companions? How every time he came to collect his service Chauncey would fight with all his might to remain in control?

The angel commanded Chauncey's body to continue on walking towards a small tower left in ruins for centuries. Mosh and weeds covered the ruins, just as it always had. Chauncey remembered this site; he used to play fort here when he was just a boy.

The tower was always abandoned, never touched. Until tonight. A body lay face first into the earth in front of the ruins. A streak of cold blooded fear rushed through Chauncey as the angel made its way toward the body.

From what Chauncey could make out, the body belonged to a man. His hair was damp, his coat hanging unto his frame, however was ripped apart in certain areas. Like Chauncey, he was missing his footwear. He had a tall, lean body – and then recognition dawned on Chauncey. Inwardly, Chauncey was shaking his head in horror, unable to believe the site before him.

Chauncey stopped a couple feet away from the body – and like a swift never-ending nightmare, the angel released him. Chauncey was unable to hold his weight on his weak legs and fell to his knees before crashing the rest of the way to the earth along with his fellow companion.

Although Chauncey laid on his side, mixed between consciousness and the darkness, he could hear the angel clearly.

"He provided the service quite well," the angel remarked, and Chauncey could feel him _smiling_.

"As did mine," said another, familiar voice. He was another angel, one that Chauncey's angel saw frequently every Cheshvan. They were close, as if they were brothers.

The angel dug his boot into Chauncey's side and he cried out. The angel leaned down far enough so Chauncey could hear him whisper, "Until next time, _Duc_."

The angel released him and he, along with his companion, disappeared into the mist.

A brutal cough racked his body before Chauncey was able to speak. His mouth was dry, hoarse from the lack of being able to speak for the entire fortnight.

His friend moaned and Chauncey's head shot up. The man was awakening!

"Barnabas," Chauncey said roughly. No answer. He swallowed and tried again. "Barnabas," he spoke clearer and louder.

The man turned on his side and slumped back so that he back was against the earth. He turned her head and faced Chauncey.

Barnabas had tears in his eyes and a deep cut to the side of his head. His lip was busted and there were bruising on his left cheekbone.

"Chauncey," he whispered in pain. He squeezed his eyes shut from the obvious pain racking his body.

"You will heal," was all Chauncey managed to say. His own rage was simmering inside him. The vile fallen took what they never intended to return. They stole, gambled, cheated and whored while possessing nephil bodies. For a bloody _fortnight_.

"Chauncey," he said again, his face noticeably starting to heal. "The fallen are clever. They don't make mistakes. Our fallen, anyway. I-", Barnabas broke off, violently coughing, his entire frame shuddering.

"We need not speak of this now," Chauncey muttered. He needed to be informed but it wasn't at the cost of his first lieutenant's life. At least not until when they were searching for did truly exist.

After a few shallow breaths, Barnabas continued. "I witnessed nothing. Not a clue, or a tease of information. I don't think they know-"

"Oh, they know," Chauncey's tone was dark. "They're aware of it, they just won't speak or acknowledge it because of the power it can manifest."

"We must contact Blakely," Barnabas suddenly said.

"He no doubt is on his way. He knows they dump us off somewhere near the chateau," Chauncey said, convinced that their dear friend would find them soon enough.

"Are you aware of what it is called?" his lieutenant asked, changing the subject.

"Yes."

"What do they call it?"

Chauncey hesitated. Just speaking the word give him the unwanted shivers down his spine. He looked over at Barnabas and whispered _Devilcraft_ through his mind.

Barnabas's eyes widened a fraction.

 _It is from Hell itself?_

Chauncey nodded. _It's said that the form can be manipulated – in ways I'm not clear on, however if we gave it to Blakely, I'm sure he'd be able to figure it out._

Barnabas nodded. "Can you stand?"

Chauncey looked down at his feet and tried to wriggle his toes. They cooperated. Chauncey then tried to move in a seated position, and although it took a few tries, he managed it at the end.

Chauncey blew out a breath. "They're stronger than us, no doubt, but there must be a way."

Barnabas nodded in agreeance. Then he grimace, his emotion shaded with doubt. "What are the side effects to it?"

"I don't know."

The silence thickened with a sense of dread. Barnabas and Chauncey planned to pay the upmost attention during the past Cheshvan to see if the angels were aware of the form, however things didn't turn in their favour. Chauncey had been a slave to the service for more decades than he could count and yet the angel still surprised him on occasion.

He felt his sanity waning and saw devilcraft as their only retribution towards the fallen. Chauncey would take the Nephilim under his wing and with Barnabas by his side, he would rule their race to freedom. The cost may be great, but nothing compared to getting a hold of devilcraft now. He just needed to know _how_.

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 **A/N: I'll attempt writing up another chapter by the end of this week. Reviews are greatly appreciated! Even if you can't be bothered signing in (Don't worry, we all have those days), I'd love to read reviews whether you writers/readers leave your name or not.**

 **Thanks again and remember to leave a review please :) and have a good day!** **ForsakenValkyrie7**


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I only own the plot, everything else belongs to the awesome Becca Fitzapatrick.**

 **Chapter 1**

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 ** _Chateau de Langeais, France 1773_**

A lone horse-drawn coach rattled down the road leading to the Chateau de Langeais. Rain continuously pounded against the roof of the coach for majority of the trip to the chateau. Barnabas Underwood sat seated inside, clutching an open locket in his palm. His startling blue eyes took in the slightly faded picture of a young woman with long red curls. Her eyes held warmth, her chin lifted slightly upward in subtle way. She was looking away from the camera, but was every bit aware of being photographed.

Barnabas smiled softly, something he didn't do often. He stroke the outside of the locket, picturing him stroking her unruly hair he adored.

The coach slowed to a stop and Barnabas could hear the driver splatting around the side before opening the door and stepping back. Barnabas quickly closed the locket and placed it inside his coat. He then tugged his hood over his head to obscure his face and emerged from the coach. Against the wind, his cape didn't stand a chance. It flapped open and he knew his coat would be borderline saturated within minutes.

"Take shelter in the stables," Barnabas said to the driver. "I doubt my stay will be long. Keep the horses ready."

Without another word, Barnabas trudged through the mud and made his way towards the entry of the chateau. The fortress look like a sturdy medieval castle to an onlooker, however to Barnabas it seemed like an unreliable building that had the possibility of being their doom. Chauncey's plan for the chateau were limitless, and although Barnabas applaud him for his outstanding enthusiasm, he couldn't wipe the grimace off his face.

Simply put, the chateau was too small to house the amount of Nephilim Chauncey hoped to win over. From memory, Barnabas recalled there being only 15 rooms to the entire chateau! Those were including a handful of private quarters. Where would the Nephilim rest? Aside from that, the chateau was not properly reinforced or looked as if it could stand an attack. A fortress needed a curtain wall as protection against foes, which the chateau lacked.

So many questions played across his mind as he made his way up the steps leading to the drawbridge. Once at the top, he stood still with his back straight, clenched his right hand into a fist and placed it over his heart. A moment later, the drawbridge creaked down to let him across.

Two Nephilim stood guard on the other side. After Barnabas walked over the drawbridge, he removed his hood to be identified as not a foe. One of the nephils bowed his head in respect.

"It's good to see you well and safe, M'lord," he said. Barnabas recognised him as a young man named Dante Matterazzi, a loyal guard and solider to Chauncey.

Barnabas nodded back, the corner of his mouth tilted up. "The weather could've been better," he remarked as he moved passed them and into the first grand room of the chateau where he was welcomed by Chauncey.

He stood in trousers that sat low on his waist, his shoulder length blonde hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. He wore no coat or a linen shirt; his perfectly sculptured body was immaculate, just as Barnabas's was. His boots were bare of mud, which suggested either Chauncey was about to indulge in some sort of exercise, which seemed ridiculous because of the current weather thundering down outside, or Chauncey was experimenting with Blakely on another project. Chauncey's butler rushed to Barnabas with uncanny elegance, still managing to look like a proper gentleman, while removing his coat and neatly placing it on a hook near the entryway.

After nodding his thanks to the butler, he turned towards Chauncey. Seeing him after so long made Barnabas's temper start to boil.

Barnabas masked it by flittering an amused smirk in Chauncey's direction after seeing his lack of attire while adjusting his cuff. "It amazes me how your lack of etiquette is still standard to this day. Tell me, Chauncey, have you ever attended a ball? A local gathering with other Ducs? No? Perhaps it's because your unmatched protocol is too much for the others to handle," Barnabas said, never once taking his eyes off Chauncey while adjusting his other cuff. His tone was playful, but his eyes spoke another story entirely.

Chauncey made a show of glancing down at his attire before catching Barnabas's eyes and delivering a smile that held no warmth.

"I have no time for the others. My goal is to accomplish what needs to be accomplished before the next Cheshvan."

"Ah," Barnabas chuckled, as if that had shed any light to their current situation. "The next Cheshvan. It's always the next Cheshvan," Barnabas said, before continuing and imitated Chauncey's voice, "We will avenge our species by destroying those who cannot be destroyed!"

Chauncey's eyes darkened. "I know why you act like this, like a bloody child! This is because of your former wife and children, isn't it?"

Barnabas's jaw contracted. It's been more than thirty years since the passing of his former wife and children who he lost to the plague, yet not once has Chauncey said a word about them or attended their separate funerals.

"You were never there," Barnabas spat. "All those years spent in a depressing state of mind and you never once tried to help."

Chauncey stormed the rest of the way separating them and grabbed Barnabas by the shoulders. Both were breathing hard by that point.

Chauncey moistened his lips before continuing. "We all have been through suffering. No, listen to me," he barked, when Barnabas attempted stepping back. "We have all been at that low point of our lives, but we must not let it deter us from our salvation."

"Again with the pointless banter!" Barnabas thundered, his eyes flashing. "Can you not see that our searching is pointless? A waste of time! A waste of _life_! Wake up, Chauncey, we are never going to find-"

"But we have."

Silence filled the room while Barnabas and Chauncey stood face to face. Barnabas's eyes held disbelief as he watched Chauncey like he had just contracted the plague. It was impossible. No, it couldn't be right. For what felt like centuries, Chauncey and Barnabas had searched endlessly of a way to channel devilcraft to the point where Barnabas concluded it to be a rumour, a tale that was told around a fire to scare children.

And now Chauncey claimed to have found a way?

Barnabas swallowed a lump in his throat. "Surely you're mistaken," he said, disbelief ringing in his tone.

Chauncey shook his head slowly, all anger erased from his eyes, which now held hope. "We have found it."

Barnabas felt as if he was in a trance as Chauncey led him further into the fortress and to the underground layer of the chateau that only a handful of people actually knew about. Chauncey told his butler to fetch him and Barnabas some whiskey, simply explaining to Barnabas that they'd need it.

After descending rows upon rows of stairs lit by only the candle Chauncey held, he and Barnabas walked towards a lone passageway – the end leading to a section secured by a heavy and thick wooden door that had no handle, but a single and almost undiscoverable lock. Chauncey retrieved a key from his trousers pocket and unlocked the hatch. After hearing a click, Chauncey pushed the door inward with his open palm. He held the door for Barnabas and looked back when he hadn't of moved forward.

"So long as you're within my home, you are safe, my friend," Chauncey said, never looking away from Barnabas.

But fear for his safety was not what made Barnabas hesitate. This was it. This is what Barnabas had yearned for since swearing fealty. If it was true, Chauncey really did have devilcraft, which would change everything. The possibility of being able to manipulate the form was unimaginable and excited Barnabas to the point where his own feet moved into the room before he could register what was happening.

The layer was promptly Blakely's chamber of expertise, formerly known as the dungeon where not only Chauncey described that he had held captives in, but also this was where the torturing was undertaken.

"The dungeon covers the total area of the chateau underground. Only my finest workers built this kind of chamber expertly," Chauncey added with pride and his eyes took in the rows upon rows or cells stretching far across the left side of the chamber. A wall separated the middle from the right hand side, which Barnabas knew was Blakely's section and where his experimentation took place. In the middle was a more gruesome site, and it was clear what occurred there.

That was where the torture was conducted. Chains and whips and a range of torturous utensils hang on the wall. There was a well on the far end of the chamber that Barnabas could just make out.

"The Well of Death," Chauncey explained, his mouth broke out into a sinister grin and Barnabas smirked in return.

"Your love for witnessing torture proceeds you."

"Hasn't it always?" said another familiar voice to the right. Barnabas turned and broke off into a grin.

"Gods, it's been too long, my friend," Barnabas said, striding to Blakely and pulling him in for a hug. Blakely returned the hug and patted him on the back before Barnabas stepped back and grinned at his old friend.

"It has been far too long," Blakely returned, happiness glittering in his eyes. Out of the two of them, Blakely was always more fond of Barnabas than he was of Chauncey. For obvious reasons.

It amused Barnabas to no end, especially considering Chauncey met Blakely long before Barnabas.

After a period of time after swearing fealty, Chauncey said to have stumbled upon a poor business man in London, where he sold the finest shoes for men in town. Chauncey had said he was a regular customer, having left the chateau for London for weeks on end during the year, wanting more than anything to be rid of the scene that occurred all those years ago near his home.

Having recognised that he was definitely not human, Chauncey was slow to realise that the business man was of the same breed he was. Every time in his presence, Chauncey recalled he would think that he and the man must of crossed paths once, when really the tingling feeling was alerting Chauncey that this so called 'business man' was not just a business man at all. Nephilim, yes. But so very much more than that.

Blakely was an inventor, a professor, with a fine understanding of how things worked and the nature of it. He was the face of his business, if not all of London in regards to footwear, and the men adored his brand for the long lasting material and quality.

Little did Chauncey know at first was that Blakely also indulged in weaponry, fashioning his creations to uphold accuracy and speed. He perfected their imperfections, which was why he and Barnabas connected more – Barnabas was as much of a perfectionist as Blakely was.

Blakely was thirty in human years, however was much older in Nephilim years. His greying hair was the only indication to how old he was.

"I see you've been told of our discovery?" Blakely said, looking between the two.

Chauncey nodded and held his hand out in the direction of Blakely's lab. "Shall we?"

Blakely led the way passed the wall through an iron bar door that also required a key. After unlocking it, Blakely ushered us in and after securing the door behind him, he turned and led once more. After walking to the end of the passageway, Blakely turned left and continued down the path. They walked passed a handful of doors down the passageway until they got to the end where Blakely again had to unlock another door.

"What do those doors lead to?" Barnabas asked, looking back down the darkened passageway.

"They are full of equipment. The room that we're about to enter is where I conduct the experiments," Blakely gruffly said, attempting to unlock the door. After a few goes, the lock clicked and Blakely swung the door open.

After entering the room, Barnabas blew out a whistle. The room was large, a decent space for an inventor. Blakely had laid out all sorts of projects on various thick, wooden tables – most being weapons that had a strange hue to them.

Chemicals and tubes of other substances were carefully laid out on tables that were pushed against the far right wall, equipment and the sort hung on the walls in various open cupboards for easy access. Tables upon tables covered the middle area where a range of weaponry was stashed across, none of them touching each other.

And to the left was a hunched body chained to the wall. A girl, looked to be a young lady, aging somewhere in her twenties. Her black hair looked dirty and oily, her white peasant clothes were bloody, but that's not what caught Barnabas's attention. Her wrists were bounded to the wall high above her head by a length of chain that glowed in the same blue hue as the weapons did on Blakely's tables. Her head was drooped forward while her arms were in the air hanging on the chains that bounded her and her ankles were bounded by blue hued chains as well. And most startlingly, a glowing blue iron bar was wedged in her back.

His narrowed eyes widened in horror as he stumbled back against Chauncey, who managed to secure them before falling.

"Relax," Chauncey said in his ear. "She's immobilised."

"What…," Barnabas tried to finish, or form a single word but he was rendered breathless. His breathing hitched as everything hit him all at once.

The girl was a fallen angel. A _fallen angel_. Chauncey had one of the devil's brood inside his chateau.

"Notice the slight blue hue on those chains and the iron bar? All are infused with devilcraft," Blakely explained, standing near them. Chauncey let go of Barnabas after confirming he wasn't going to collapse.

"How is that possible?" Barnabas breathed, never once taking his eyes off her for fear she'd wake up out of the trance and attack. They had somehow managed to capture a fallen angel; a being possibly stronger than Chauncey and Blakely put together. That sort of thing wasn't heard off, mainly because capturing one of them was essentially impossible.

Blakely shrugged. "Devilcraft can be manipulated. She won't wake until we remove the bar from her scar tissue. That is where you'd have to stab her. It completely immobilizes the angels, sends them into an excruciatingly strange state of mind. She's not dead, but she isn't here either. She can't hear us at all."

"This is it, Barnabas," Chauncey said. "This is what we've been searching for. With devilcraft, we can immobilize our fallen so Cheshvan doesn't occur again," Chauncey said with undeniable excitement.

Barnabas frowned. "You intend to do to them what you've done to her?" he asked Chauncey, gesturing to the girl, having slightly recovered from the shock of seeing her.

Chauncey nodded, his eyes turning dark. "Each year he has taken control of my body, I want the torture and horror of it done to him tenfold. Devilcraft doesn't heal straight away. In fact, it's beyond painful – but that's not good enough. I don't want the wound to heal, I want the wound they receive to infect them and to need an antidote to be able to heal," Chauncey growled, every word dripped with hatred.

What Chauncey said made Barnabas turn towards to the closest table of weapons. All were small knives ranging from throwing knives to knuckle dusters to gauntlets. All had a glowing blue tinge to the blade of the weapon. He was just about to pick a small dagger up when Chauncey grabbed his wrist.

"Don't," Chauncey said quickly. "They're not ready."

Barnabas turned to face him, his brows furrowed. "Not ready?"

Chauncey sighed. "These weapons are enhanced with devilcraft as well," he explained, then turned his attention to the dagger. "Notice the slight blue hue to them? And how those daggers-" Chauncey said, pointing to the row above the dagger, "- are brighter than this dagger? More devilcraft was infused in the top row."

"My theory is the more devilcraft infused into the weapon, the more deadly it is," Blakely added.

"We found out the hard way of picking up weapons," Chauncey added, a slight smile playing on his lips. "I pricked myself with one of the brighter ones and it took a week to heal. Blakely is working on an antidote."

Barnabas looked between the two men. "You mean to tell me that you've been experimenting on yourselves?"

"Of course not," Chauncey brushed it away, as if the thought was ridiculous. "Blakely infuses the weapons and I test them on my body."

As if that were any better. At least that explained Chauncey's lack of attire. Barnabas shook his head in disbelief. "Why not experiment on her?"

Chauncey looked at the fallen and hesitated. "We did and it takes her less time for her to heal than it has me, but she was never awake in the process."

"You do not know how she'd react to being in contact with devilcraft? What if it has no effect?" Barnabas argued then blew out a harsh sigh. "Chauncey, how long have you had devilcraft?"

Chauncey looked at him warily. "Three months."

Three whole months! Barnabas gritted his teeth. "You sent for me a week ago and it has taken me that long to travel here. Why did you not contact me earlier?" he demanded.

Chauncey dragged his hand down his face, suddenly looking tired. "I would have sent for you but I had to be sure it was devilcraft. We managed to catch this one by surprise by stabbing her in the back and redoing that many times while dragging her back here," Chauncey said. "She kept rambling on about this specific necklace, as if she was crazed. We tortured her to no end, and I almost lost hope. I wanted information about devilcraft and needed a source. She was the source."

"The necklace held value to her so I grabbed a stool and sat by her and asked about nothing but the necklace until hours later, she finally broke. She wanted me to find it so she could contact someone. Another angel I thought at first," Blakely said, before glaring at the girl. "That was until I ransacked her previous home – she was a nanny to a young lord – and found a silver chained necklace. When I showed her I found it, I told her I'd give it to her if she answered my questions – one in specific – how to get my hands on devilcraft. She was petrified, to say the least. Always mumbling 'they're going to find out, they're going to find out'. _They_ being the _archangels_. _They_ being the ones who she tried to contact," Blakely spoke with such distaste for the fallen.

"We bargained with her – 'tell us about devilcraft and we'll let her go'. She eventually complied out of desperation," Chauncey continued, grinning without humour at the fallen. "Can't say the same for us. Which is why I stopped taking the bar out – every time was just a flood of indecent language flittering from her mouth, and , well, you know how much I hate backchat," Chauncey said, looking over to Barnabas with a knowing glint in his eyes.

"You will not find answers or conduct more advanced research if you leave her immobilized," Barnabas stated, looking at Blakely.

"What do you suggest?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Barnabas looked at Chauncey. "I will be the one that handles her," he said, then turned towards Blakely. "Although I am impressed with what you've come up with so far, it is not nearly enough before the next Cheshvan. If we are to do this, and find a way to handle the fallen, we need to move quickly. It is only four months away."

Chauncey frowned. "Assuming you are able to conduct more experimentations, what do you suggest I do?" he inquired, raising his eyebrows.

Barnabas gestured with exasperation around him. "This chateau is far too small Chauncey."

"You want me to relocate us to a bigger facility?" Chauncey replied, his brows furrowed.

"No. That will draw too much suspicion to not only the fallen, but to the public. We cannot mind trick the residential human population as we please. It is a waste of energy," Barnabas said truthfully, then scratched his chin. "I have a proposition – one that will aid us greatly."

"Yes?"

"Construct a curtain wall spamming the entire chateau and the surrounding lands you own within it."

"And the nearby town? What would the public say to our rash development?" Chauncey challenged.

Barnabas shrugged. "Tell the press the chateau is undergoing major inner and outer construction and will be closed for the time being – these things take years," Barnabas grinned suddenly. "But I'm sure your men could plan and carry out the construction within months."

"The curtain wall alone will take a few months-"

"I'm not just talking about the wall. Towers will need to be included, including an extension of the fortress. You want to house an army in a chateau that only offers fifteen rooms?" Barnabas added pressingly.

Chauncey regarded him warily. "Forgive me, but this is rash behaviour. Why must we do all these things, and within _months_?"

Barnabas's gaze turned hard on Chauncey. "Because, as you said, this is it. If we are to lead the Nephilim to freedom from Cheshvan, we need to ensure that they assume they're safe within our protection and an unequipped chateau will simply not do."

"You're right," Blakely put in before Chauncey could say a word. "The fallen can attack at any time, regardless of not being able to possess our bodies. Once they figure out our planning, they will surely form a strategic way to ensure that devilcraft is taken from our reach."

"They have the mind power to make us forget what we cannot remember," Barnabas added. "After all the hard work spent wielding the powerful form of devilcraft, are you really ready to have that snatched away from you?"

Chauncey didn't reply, instead pondered quietly to himself. He turned and paced a short way before turning back to towards the men, his eyes clouded with so much emotion it was a wonder how he didn't explode from it. At last he stopped and sighed.

"I want nothing more than revenge on him," he said with quiet rage. "I want him to follow after my every step and be my slave for the rest of his miserable existence," Chauncey said, glancing between the two. "If you manage to come up with a way that binds them to be our eternal slaves, then this would strengthen our cause," he said, then looked at the fallen girl. "I will have my men draw up stretches and plans tonight for our new fortress. They will begin tomorrow."

Barnabas's body flooded with relief as his friend finally agreed to better their defences.

Chauncey turned to leave then abruptly stopped, and turned back to look at Barnabas.

"I want your name changed."

Barnabas blinked. "Pardon?"

"Your name must be changed to hide your identity."

"Our fallen know our true names," he said slowly.

Chauncey waved that off. "No matter of that. We will have new enemies and those enemies will not know your true name. Think of something that is normal, almost boring – a name that won't draw too much attention but still sounding powerful."

Barnabas was looking at Chauncey as if he had just laid an egg in the middle of the room. To change his name when already so many importantly risky people already knew it?

"I don't think that's a good idea. Those who know the truth will find out."

"Not if we mind trick our fallen to simply forget your name."

Barnabas's eyes narrowed. "And what of your name?"

Chauncey paused for a moment, contemplating. When he didn't reply straight away, Blakely piped in. "To make this work, you'll need to keep your surname, so the Nephilim are aware that this chateau belongs to your family. Simply choose a first name."

Barnabas was still beyond confused and seemed to be unable to process what was happening. "First of all, I agree with Blakely. Both our identities need to be cleared. Second, how do you presume to erase our former names from our fallen?"

"Devilcraft," Chauncey simply replied.

Barnabas waited a few beats to let him continue. When he didn't, he blurted, "Devilcraft? How are you going to be able to control the mind of the angel with devilcraft?"

"It can be manipulated. These weapon manipulations is only the start, Barnabas. What if we could use the form in a more physical way? We could produce impenetrable armour or skins that could take the damage, but never to inflict pain to the solider wearing the armour," Chauncey said, growing excited about all the ways devilcraft could be used in.

"I must go and speak with Dante about our arrangements," Chauncey said, turning towards the door again and leaving Barnabas in a conflicted state of mind. "Think of a name by the time I get back." He disappeared through door, and after it closed, all that was left from Chauncey was his echoing footsteps down the passageway.

Barnabas turned to Blakely. "What could I possibly change my birth name to?" he sighed.

Blakely leaned against a nearby table, arms crossed at his chest and biting the corner of his bottom lip.

"A strong name that isn't boring," Blakely spoke, trying to hide a smile.

"My father's name was John."

"Too original."

Okay. "My grandfather's name was William."

"Strong name but overused."

Barnabas agreed. It was a popular name chosen for the first son of a family. He came across so many boys named William that he'd lost count.

Barnabas shrugged, seeing no ill fit to not say the other grandfather's name.

"My other grandfather was Hank."

Blakely took that in and nodded. "A strong name. Not many men I've come across called by that name actually."

"Hank it is," Barnabas confirmed, feeling slightly better about the situation.

"As for the last name, what was your mother's maiden name?"

"Millar," Barnabas replied, putting those two names together. "Hank Millar. Sounds almost catchy," he remarked.

Blakely chuckled. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

* * *

 **A/N: Hey guys! Hope you're all doing well. Please leave a review and let me know what you think :)**

 **~ ForsakenValkyrie7**


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything apart from the plot, everything belongs to the awesome Becca Fitzpatrick.**

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

 ** _A couple months later_**

Hank, formally known as Barnabas Underwood, stepped back and lit up his cigar, taking a long drag before looking back at the fallen angel. She was slouched against the wall behind her, sweat streaking down her face. Her eyes stared daggers at Hank as she watched him exhale smoke.

After taking another drag, he grabbed a nearby stool, twisted it so he'd sit on it backwards.

He pointed his cigar at her. "You are not cooperating," he said simply, but his eyes held hers with such intensity that she looked away.

She shifted against her manacles, clearly frustrated but too frightened of Hank to lunge forward and carry out another attempted assault like she previously had tried. He spent every day for the last couple months grilling into her for any bit of dirt she had on the other fallen, and for most of it she proved to be solid. After Blakely had tricked her in returning her valuable necklace, she proved to be resistant, as Chauncey had warned. That made the operation quite difficult.

Hank heard Blakely's footsteps near towards him and turned slightly to the other nephil without ever taking his eyes off her.

"Try this one," Blakely said, producing a dagger enhanced with devilcraft. Hank took the hilt, gazing down the prominent blue glow of the blade. He aided Blakely in testing out the weapons infused with devilcraft against the fallen angel while she remained awake. What Hank found pleasing was that the form had a mystical effect on her, allowing her to not essentially feel pain it caused but to allow her to fall into a coma for a period of time before waking and feeling weak. Devilcraft couldn't make the fallen feel the desired pain Hank hoped it would, however weakening them was almost as pleasing.

He also did the tests on himself and found the same effect with only one difference: once Hank made contact with devilcraft, the pain would be intense, however he was unable to shout out in pain until the weapon was removed from his skin. Blakely would be the one to stab Hank and after a few moments watching and taking down Hank's reaction to the form being inside him, Blakely would remove the weapon, causing Hank to collapse on the floor, yelling in pain every time.

Hank got up and walked to the fallen. She writhed away from him, leaned as far against the wall as she could. She was constantly weakened, which allowed Hank to be able to move close within her area without fear of her ripping him to shreds. Without a word of warning, Hank whipped out the dagger and stabbed her in her side. Her face was a mask of pure silent horror as her mouth flew open and silent screams seemed to wrack her body. This was the usual reaction after stabbing her with devilcraft.

But this time was different. She writhed against the blade, twisting in her manacles to remove it free from her body.

Then suddenly she stopped moving.

Her mouth was agape, her eyes stared forward at Hank with no pain or hatred evident and she slouched forward with only the chains supporting her weight.

Blakely rushed forward, fitting two fingers to her neck to check for a pulse as Hank stood there breathing heavily. He wrenched out the dagger and dropped it near his feet without barely noticing.

Moments went by before Blakely turned to him. "She's dead," he said, his brow furrowed in confusion.

At that exact moment, the door to the layer opened and Jules, formally known as Chauncey, waltzed in, oblivious to what just occurred moments prior. He chose the name because it belonged to a man he hated greatly who personally carried out many of the endless amount of bashings he received from this man, yet in a way, Jules managed to somehow respect him. Jules wouldn't be the man he was today if it weren't for him – him being his own father.

He held three glasses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

"A glass or two is in order to celebrate the completion of the curtain wall! You are a humble genius, my friend," Jules said, smiling as he set down the glasses and wine. "The extension of the Chateau will be complete come the next Cheshvan, and all of our plans will be set in motion. The chateau herself will be able to house ample amounts of our kind," he said, then turned towards Hank. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the fallen slouched forward, her dead sightless eyes staring forward and the smile was washed off his face.

Jules's mouth opened in horror as he stumbled forward, pushing Hank out of the way and grasping the girl by her shoulders. He shook her hard to get a response, but Hank knew he wasn't ever going to get one again.

"This is both excellent and awful," Blakely whispered, shaking his head and looked away from the girl.

Jules gave a shout of anger before pushing the body back against the wall with mighty force. The body made a significant dint after colliding with the wall.

Jules breathed out harshly, backing away from her, his fingers reaching up and twisted in his hair.

"This is not possible," he barked.

Hank dragged a hand down his face, a slight moment of displeasure filled his body to the core. Their source was dead. An _immortal_.

"Devilcraft is stronger than we imagined," Hank sighed, turning away from the body and moved towards the wine. He needed a drink.

"It was my fault. I tried to make the blade completely concentrated of devilcraft – as if it was a blade of the form rather than metal-"

"It is not your fault," Hank interrupted Blakely. He popped open the bottle of wine, filled the glass to its brim and walked over to Blakely. He took it and downed it in one go. After doing the same with Jules, he went back and filled his own glass and having realized that the bottle was nearly empty, Hank tipped back the bottle and emptied the remaining in his mouth.

"Devilcraft has the ability to kill an immortal…to kill us," Jules said, his words laced with both anger and wonder. A sliver of fear shot through Hank but he quickly pushed it aside.

Instead, Hank nodded before grasping his glass and turned towards the other men. "Which is why it is both good and bad. I hope you are not having any suicidal thoughts, _Chauncey_ ," Hank said, using his former name to drive home a point. When Jules turned towards him, Hank watched him over the bridge of his glass as he took a swig.

"You're mad if you think I'd fantasize about such things," he spat and threw Hank a disgusted look. Hank knew very well of Jules's own torture. If it was not horrible enough to be forced to give up your body for two weeks, Hank couldn't imagine what it felt to actually be losing his mind. Throughout the past decade, Hank saw his dearest friend in a completely different light. Often when he spoke of his fallen angel, he would stuff his hand in his pocket and curl it into a fist while his nails dug into his palms making them bleed. Which was understandable.

"We are no closer to finding a solution to, as you might recall, 'use the fallen as our eternal slaves'," Hank chirped in, attempting to change the subject.

Jules turned away from him and started to pace with his hands folded behind his back.

"We're not thinking hard enough," Jules sighed, stopping in mid pace and dragged a hand down his face.

Hank was slightly offended by that. Yes, Jules did have a grand job of designing the extension of the chateau now that the wall was up, however he did not suffer the constant heat that scorched Blakely's layer.

Day after day Hank made an effort to steal answers from the fallen alongside Blakely and just once he would've appreciated the gratitude.

"I need fresh air," was all he said before grabbing his coat and leaving both men quizzical. After opening the door and letting it shut behind him, Hank traced back to the top floor of the chateau and proceeded to the front gate. After the drawbridge was lowered, Hank walked on and fitted his arms through his coat. The day was nearly half gone, the sun shining above as if to mock him.

He set off to the nearby town, keen to compose himself before facing Jules again. Hank was unsettled by many things; the upmost being he didn't like to fail which was how the whole operation was turning out to be. He was at a loss for new ideas – and having their only source dead, Hank felt as if a whole new load of pressure and stress was pressed down on his shoulders.

Scowling, he retrieved a cigar from his pocket and walked off to the side of the road to move out of an oncoming carriage's path. The driver tipped his hat to him in thanks but Hank was so lost in his own thoughts to return the kind gesture. After lighting the cigar and taking a drag, Hank wandered off alone.

His thoughts were muddled up of the urgency to find a way to control the fallen with thoughts of his dearly beloved.

He sighed, his aching heart weighing him down every time he thought about her. The one he must protect, the one he must keep in hiding yet so badly wanted the whole world to know she was his.

But he couldn't. He'd gone to great lengths keeping her safe, even not seeing her for months on end with only a messenger to go between them. It was pathetic and he despised it. However, her safety was most important and if his fallen knew of her, they'd be no greater threat.

"That'll teach ya, ye mutt!" a voice from up ahead screeched, cutting Hank off from his thoughts.

Hank looked up and squinted. The road he went down was the road right next to the main one leading into the centre of the nearby town, and on this side all that could be seen was the back of random shops – including a bakery, a variety of hardware stores and the like.

Behind the bakery were stacks upon stacks of crates and a few rusty old chairs that all looked quite weathered. The paint on the building was striped in many places and looked to be rundown but that wasn't what captured Hank's attention.

Secured by a chain that was attached to a metal pole just behind the bakery was a young man. He was breathing heavily and was sweating. As Hank strode closer, he saw that the young man had a heavy iron collar around his neck. The chain was secured to the back of the collar and no matter how hard the man struggled, it was clear he was not going to be escaping any time soon.

Suddenly, Hank stopped walking. The cigar jutting out from his mouth was forgotten and soon fell, but went unnoticed. Hank stared at the collar and was intrigued.

"Milord," someone suddenly said. A man, not far behind Hank.

He barely noticed when another figure stood beside him.

"Milord," the familiar man said again.

"What is it?" Hank spoke automatically. He barely paid attention to the other man. The collar sparked something in Hank.

"I've news, milord," he said. Had Hank detected a spur of joy in the new comer's voice?

"Go on," Hank replied, taking a step closer to the direction of the bakery. He wasn't exactly far but Hank still remained far enough for the man to be unaware of his presence.

Judging from the way the young man was positioned, Hank saw that the collar was of basic design with no short inner or outer spikes, which bought Hank to the conclusion that the man was simply a captive.

And then it came to him.

So suddenly that Hank wasn't prepared for the revelation. His eyes widened and felt his heart beat quicker than ever before. The feeling of rare astonishment was too intense for him to stand, and he unsteadily stepped back.

"Are you alright?" his companion said, moving forward to steady him.

Hank steadied himself and blinked a few times before turning to him. Hank and Jules were related through blood but their differences would make anyone question how both of them were connected. However, the man standing before him was considered more family than Jules ever could be.

Right now, his friend was looking at him with deep concern.

"Harrison," Hank whispered, dropping his eyes to the ground before looking back at the trapped man. "I think I've found a way."

Harrison Grey, a loyal friend to the heart, followed Hank's gaze and frowned at the man. "I'm not sure I understand, milord," Harrison admitted.

Hank, beyond discreetly, nodded towards the man. "The collar," was all he whispered.

Harrison looked towards the collar and frowned. "You intend on controlling the fallen by employing collars around their necks?" he whispered, confused. "If so, you're mad."

"Mad," Hank scoffed quietly. "It astounds me how I've only just come by this. Collars have been used for slavery for centuries."

"Yes, _human_ slavery. What you speak of lacks sense," Harrison pressed on, looking away from the man and turned to Hank. "This cause – this ridiculous Nephilim sovereignty over their fallen angels is a notion not worth fighting for. It is a waste of time because it is _impossible_ ," Harrison continued, stepping in front of Hank so he could no longer look at the man.

Hank looked up at him and grimaced. "Forgive me, Harrison. But you have the luxury of not being a full blooded Nephilim, and therefore you do not have the undeniable option to give up your body for two weeks. Whether it's a lost cause or not, I will continue to find a way or -" he didn't finish, instead he looked away, unable to meet his dearest friend's eyes while speaking of such nonsense.

Hank suffered a lot throughout his life but suicidal thoughts were never an option to him – because he accepted he was a doomed immortal being after being told so himself, and therefore it was never an option…until now.

Hank spoke scornfully to Jules of having such preposterous thoughts, but has never admitted out loud that he shared them as well. Having your bodily function taken from you – almost automatically – is more than a nightmare. The paranoia, the fear, the hatred that runs through Hank's veins every Cheshvan was enough to send anyone mad, no matter the race. But Hank had remained strong, defiant of allowing his fallen angel to rid him of his sanity, but only because of the possibility he could chain his angel into his upmost fantasized desired of being his slave.

Harrison caught on and did something Hank never suspected he'd do – he punched him. Harrison's closed fist connected to Hank's jaw with such force that Hank staggered back. Before he was able to regain full stability, Harrison stepped forward and grabbed Hank by his collar.

" _That_ is not an option," he spat before adding, "milord."

Hank pushed him back but was still surprised by the force behind that blow. He flitted a hand to the side of his jaw and winced. He'd undoubtedly receive a bruise from that. Considering Hank was position at a higher rank then his fellow friend, that blow would have concreted his death sentence. But Hank understood his reasoning and therefore didn't strike him back.

"We have devilcraft," Hank spoke, as if nothing happened.

Harrison was breathing heavily, noticeably surprised by his own action, but he stood still after hearing Hank.

"That's not possible."

Hank nodded. "I had the same reaction."

"But…" Harrison sputtered, confusion written all over his handsome face.

"Chauncey found a way and captured a fallen angel and also restrained her by using devilcraft," Hank informed him, adjusting his collared undershirt. "She's dead though," he added.

Harrison was evidently shocked but his eyes held Hank's with complete seriousness.

"The fallen cannot be killed," he said uncertainly.

"Devilcraft has proven to be…potent," Hank said. "I stabbed her with a fully concentrated dagger and it killed her."

"Devilcraft has the power to kill an immortal and you want to wash your hands with it?" Harrison scoffed. "What if Chauncey uses it against you? Have you not thought of that? The men respect you more than they do him."

That was true. Jules was feared more than respected, whereas Hank was the opposite. The people saw Hank as level headed and not rash. It wasn't a secret that Jules's sanity was ebbing away and was replaced with a vicious temper that Hank couldn't stand.

"He wouldn't end me. There's no one to take his rein when he passes," Hank replied, satisfied with how certain he was of that.

"And if he bears a child?"

Hank shook his head. "Jules has no intention of having a wife. His mind is solely on capturing his fallen." He pulled another cigar out of his coat.

"If you say he won't end you, then surely you've assumed that he'd be having the same thoughts you are."

"I don't follow," Hank said, lighting up his cigar.

"If he won't kill you, then haven't you ever thought to overthrow him and take what belongs to him?"

"No," Hank said, which was a lie muddled within the truth.

Hank had no intention of overruling his dear family member. At least not for now. He had bigger plans and it was best for him to leave Jules where he was.

"I have no intention of doing that," Hank said, before turning back and glancing at the curtain wall in the distance. "I must return to him."

Before he took another step, he turned back to Harrison. "How is she?"

It pained him to ask, knowing that the answer would just bring him more heart ache, but fearing it'd worsen if he didn't know. Harrison played the messenger role between the lovers, however spent most of his time with her to provide the illusion that Harrison was actually her husband. Another lie to keep her safe.

"She's fine, but-"

"That's all I need to know for now, my friend. Return to her. I will find you after Cheshvan," was all Hank said before quickly walking away, his throat tight with sudden emotion, while continuously repeating _its better this way_ over and over.

* * *

"A collar?" Jules said, eyebrows raised.

Hank made it back to the chateau after he composed himself. After returning to Blakely's layer, Hank explained to both of them of his idea.

"What a remarkable idea," Blakely mused, rubbing his chin. "But I'm unsure how we'd still be able to control the fallen?"

"We must design the collars in a specific way for the fallen," Hank said, pacing. "What if the collars were made of standard iron but enhanced with devilcraft?"

"That is the tricky bit. How is a single devilcraft collar going to stop the fallen from attacking-"

"It's manipulated," Jules suddenly put in. Both Hank and Blakely turned towards him. "What if we manipulated devilcraft to injury the fallen if they disobey?"

There was a slight pause before Blakely nodded. "Perhaps it could be designed to have spikes on the front inner side to the collar?"

"The spikes being infused with devilcraft," Hank added, nodding at Blakely to continue.

"If we can manipulate it when they have their collar on, we can control what they do."

"How though?" Hank said.

"I've been experimenting with devilcraft on the side," Blakely went on. "I have evidence that I can physically control it."

Hank looked over at Jules, and noticed his surprised expression mirrored Hank's. Physically controlling devilcraft? Hank was unsure what he meant – considering he was under the impression that Blakely could already do so when imbuing the weapons. Clearly Blakely was unto something else entirely.

Blakely moved forward and stood before Hank and Jules. He took a deep breath before lifting his closed fist, then twisted his wrist upward and opened his palm. A sudden blue flame flittered from his open palm.

Jules gasped while Hank stood rooted in the same spot, frozen with surprise and shock. The flame was bright but not unbearable to look at. Blakely somehow managed with control devilcraft through his body.

After recovering quickly, Hank moved closer and crouched down slightly to see that Blakely's palm was taking no damage. He looked up at Blakely.

"You're not burning," Hank said, surprised and confused.

Blakely nodded eagerly. "It won't hurt me because I'm channelling it through my body. At first I did hurt myself because I ran my finger on my other hand through the flame and almost scorched it. But channelling it like this isn't painful, if anything its soothing," Blakely said.

"The possibilities are seeming to be endless with devilcraft," Jules noted, moving next to Hank.

"Does this mean you are able to shoot devilcraft fire from your palm?" Hank asked, intrigued. That would be a great feat, an unbelievably outstanding technique to use against the fallen.

Blakely shrugged. "I haven't tested it out that far yet, however if I'm able to channel it through palm to produce a flame, I'm sure I'm able to practice that too."

"We all will," Jules added. "We need to master it first before Cheshvan."

"No," Hank said.

"No?" Jules said, turning to him. Anger dawned on his features as if he thought Hank was judging his authority.

"Our main concern is controlling the fallen," Hank said, standing his ground. "You wanted a way to control them, now you have it. Our main job now is to create the collars and test it before Cheshvan."

This is what Jules wanted of Hank and now that he got it, Hank was not going to simply push that aside while they mastered channelling devilcraft fire.

After nodding towards Blakely's now unlit palm, Hank said, "We can learn the ways of physically controlling it after we've produced these collars."

"And if these collars don't work?" Jules challenged.

Hank looked over at him, his eyes narrowing with determination. "Believe me when I say," he started, then his tone darkened, "they won't fail us. Slaves are enslaved with iron collars, as will our dawning new fallen captives."

Jules stared at Hank momentarily before nodding. "I'll alert my blacksmith to bring down a crate of iron collars," Jules said to Blakely, then turned to Hank "I cannot do this without you. If we are to catch our fallen, we need to do this together, once and for all."

Hank smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

* * *

 ** _The night of Cheshvan_**

Hank whistled while strolling away from the chateau, trying his best to maintain a calm posture. His throat felt tight with dread as he pushed away thoughts of his plan being ruined because of his abhorrent acting skills.

He was to act normal to a certain degree – he knew that his fallen angel stalked him frequently, and knew quite well that he was following and watching Hank right at this moment. Hank did the same thing every single Cheshvan since he could remember – he'd walk within crowds of people, mostly in crowded streets where he'd hope that someone would see what this creature was doing to him- how he was ruining his life bit by bit. Yet no one ever noticed, as if he was a ghost.

But he wasn't.

Hank had the displeasure of witnessing the horrors and pleasures his fallen divulged in when possessing his body. A shudder ran through his spine.

As he made it closer to the centre of the town he immediately ceased whistling and put his acting skills to the test.

He was to make himself look paranoid, which didn't take all that much effort. He turned his head to the right to look down the main street markets and gulped audibly. He faked another shudder and awkwardly turned to his left.

The acting became so natural that Hank realised is wasn't acting at all – he was truly terrified. He needed to keep cool and calm on the inside, but the more he got into character, the more his fear grew.

He rummaged around his coat for his handkerchief, nearly unhooking the collar as he retrieved it and wiped his face. He was sweating uncontrollably. He was concerned that the blue glow of the devilcraft infused spikes on the inside of the collar was visible on the outside of his coat. After confirming with Jules is was not, Hank had stepped out from the chateau.

Unable to take it anymore, Hank quickened his pace and made a sharp right where he continued down the road that led towards the nearby grassy hills of the Loire Valley.

Both Hank and Jules had set off in the same direction, just down different main roads but were to meet up at the edge of town and make their way towards the hills. The plan, if it worked, was not a site for human eyes.

Hank saw Jules striding in the distance and saw that he too was finding it difficult to remain calm.

Hank quickened his steps, catching up to Jules without delay.

 _Be calm, brother_ Hank spoke to Jules through his mind.

Jules turned back slightly to see Hank catching up to him. Once Hank stood by his side, he led the way towards the edge of town. This part of town wasn't as crowded with hordes of people as the main streets were, which was why Hank was quizzical as to why their fallen had not shown up yet.

Jules must have shared Hank's inner thoughts. He looked at Hank, confused, and looked behind them to find nothing following them.

Odd.

After leaving the slight safety of the town behind, Hank still strode on towards the hills. The day was overcast, with light rainfall tumbling from the grey clouds above. The constant noise of his and Jules boots sloshing in the growingly damp ground was the only sound that interrupted the rain.

Hank knew the fallen were drawing in, and his teeth began to chatter.

A distant chuckle from the left caught Hank's attention and he froze. Jules, alongside him, caught Hank by the arm. He was trembling.

In the distance, standing on top one of the closest hills, stood a man.

"Run," Hank whispered.

As practised, Jules took off with Hank trailing a little way behind. Fallen angels were supremely better built than Nephilim, with superior heightened strength and speed – however, Hank was still able to see one of their fallen run towards Jules.

The plan was set in motion.

The fallen, now Hank could see was his fallen angel, was running towards him from the side, evidently excited for the chase. Jules's angel was nowhere within site which frightened Hank even more. Then suddenly an intense boost of energy hit him and soon he realised that he'd picked up speed.

Hank was running on an adrenaline rush and it couldn't have come at a better time. His fear was still there but was subdued by the sudden increased strength and ability he gained.

He looked over at the closing in angel and realised he was closer than he appeared.

Mind controlling. Bastard.

 _Block him out_ , he screeched at Jules.

Jules was still maintaining speed when Hank's angel was mere yards away.

Gritting his teeth, Hank suddenly run from behind Jules and bolted towards the angel. He pumped his arms and legs against the now pouring rain. The angel was momentarily caught off guard by Hank's rash change of direction and Hank saw this as their only opening.

 _Now!_ Jules roared.

Hank fell down swiftly and slid on his side against the damp ground while Jules came up from behind him. The angel, unaware of what was happening, screeched in annoyance and bolted forward. He was only paces away from Hank when Jules ran the rest of the short distance and slid to a stop. Jules raised his stretched out arm at the angel and bright blue fire spat from his palm. The flame hit the angel with such force that he flew flat on his back a short distance from Hank.

Still running on adrenaline, Hank shot to his feet without realising what was happening and dashed to the fallen. He laid on his back, his eyes tightly shut. Jules fired him with devilcraft in the middle of his torso which now looked like bubbled skin on the outside of the ring, whereas in the middle was black. A good hit.

Just before Hank was able to retrieve the collar and pronounce him as his eternal prisoner, he was knocked to the ground. Hank landed harshly on his front, his chest felt tight.

"Behind you!" Jules yelled.

Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling in his chest, Hank hastily turned and saw that standing before him was Jules's fallen angel. The boy looked down at him with black eyes burning with hatred. His dark hair was drenched from the rain, along with the trousers and open jacket he most definitely stole. The rain trailed down his immaculate defined torso, while his trousers stood low on his hips. In his prime condition, this fallen angel looked terrifying.

Hank gulped, the terror was starting to sink in.

Jules came up short of his angel and before blasting him with devilcraft, the angel turned swiftly and kicked Jules in the stomach. He flew back a few yards, winded.

The angel turned back towards Hank and moved forward. Hank attempted crawling back but the angel dug his boot on his windpipe.

"What have you gotten yourself muddled up with, Underwood?" he barked, his eyes were pits of burning black fire. Hank was momentarily surprised by the sound of his former name.

Hank struggled against his boot, unable to breathe. He clawed against the boot.

"You shouldn't have touched devilcraft," the angel said quietly. Off to the side, Hank's angel was coughing and wheezing, clearly injured but still unable to feel the pain behind his wounds. The site would have amused Hank to no end if he was in a better position.

In that second, Jules's angel turned to his fellow friend and Hank saw his chance. Hank's left hand moved down to his coat where he fumbled for the collar. Still struggling for air, Hank unclipped the collar from the inside of his coat and raked it against the fallen's leg. The devilcraft infused collar burned through his trousers and he flinched away, releasing the hold he had on Hank's windpipe.

The fallen stumbled back while Hank greedily inhaled deep breaths of fresh air. The collar, still within Hank's grasp, fell to his side. Jules's fallen fell to his knees, wincing from the trauma devilcraft was dealing him. Although fallen angels couldn't feel, therefore having no sensation of pain at all, devilcraft was able to provide them some sort of internal spasm where if they've been in contact with highly concentrated devilcraft, their bodies would slowly shut down.

Jules, having finally recovered, came up behind his fallen and retrieved his collar, fastening it around the fallen's neck. Immediately, the fallen lashed out and the inner spikes visibly punctured his necks. Jules backhanded him and he fell on his side, facing Hank's fallen angel.

"Tighten," Jules barked, eyes blazing with hatred as he stared at the collar. The collar did as Jules commanded and visibly tightened. Controlling devilcraft with his mind.

The fallen gasped in shock and clawed at the collars, blooding his fingertips as they made contact with the spikes.

"No!" shouted Hank's angel before he rolled to his side and attempted sitting up, still clutching his chest. That wouldn't do. Hank sprung to his feet, knelt down for the collar and stormed towards his angel. Upon arrival, Hank kicked his angel in the gut, which made him attempt to twist away. As he moved away, Hank kicked the angel on his shoulder blade so he was on his back in the grass yet again. Hank moved over the angel, so he was hovering over him with both legs stood concreted on either side of the angel and crouched down. The angel lifted up his arms in defence as Hank slashed them with the collar.

The devilcraft left behind crooked electric blue gashes along the outside of his wrists to his elbows. Hank slapped his arms away and secured the collar around his neck.

The angel snarled in anger and tried to throw Hank off him. Hank punched his face, hard. The angel head flew back and when the force brought his head forward, Hank grabbed a chunk of his hair and pulled him closer.

"There is something I need of you," Hank whispered harshly, reciting the same words his angel used on him. "I need you to swear your oath of eternal slavery to me," Hank said harshly, his eyes capturing the angel's solely attention.

"Fight it, Rixon!" Jules's angel spat, twisting away from Jules.

Rixon's eyes never left Hank's. And for the first time in Hank's existence, he saw fear in his angel's eyes.

Once an oath was made, it can never be broken. If broken, the consequence was death.

"You will be my possession, my slave, my own personal warrior and guard. You will march behind my footsteps, you will obey my every command, and believe me, you will _obey_ ," Hank snarled, roaring the last word, and grasping Rixon's head forward to maintain the levelled eye contact. He was now shuddering, drenched in hatred and fear.

"Hank," Jules said, unsure of what Hank was doing. Granted, this wasn't part of the plan but Hank suddenly thought it necessary.

Hank stepped back, away from Rixon. "Rise to your feet," he commanded, then looked at Jules's fallen angel. "You as well."

Both of the angels staggered to their feet, and Hank realised that devilcraft was no longer giving them a choice. They stood, bloodied and haggard. Jules looked at Hank with a sort of awe and was impressed by the way Hank controlled the fallen. Jules stood by his side, and looked at his fallen.

"You will obey us. You do not have control over that," Jules spoke. "Kneel."

Rixon looked towards Jules's angel before kneeling, and was breathing harshly through his nose. Soon after, Jules's angel complied, kneeling and no longer looking at Jules, but at Hank.

Finally, Hank had their attention.

"Swear your oath to us, concluding that if you break the oath, it'll result in the opposite's death," Hank said, staring down both of them with his intense blue eyes.

Jules's angel's eyes widened in disbelief. Rixon closed his eyes and hung his head.

" _Swear it_ ," Hank yelled, his voice rebounding off the hills and echoed in the distance.

Hank's angel lifted his head and turned his head towards Hank, never looking away or even blinking.

"Lord, I become your man," he said, looking between both Jules and Hank. "I swear an oath to become your eternal slave, your warrior, your guard and to obey your commands. If I break my vow, the consequence will be…Patch's death," he said, whispering the last bit.

Hank nodded, then looked at Jules's angel, who barely glanced at Jules's direction. Odd.

"Lord, I become your man. I swear an oath to pledge myself to you. I will henceforth be your warrior, your slave and your guard. I will obey every command you give. If I break this vow, I understand that the consequence will be Rixon's…death."

And with that, Hank and Jules managed to find a way to control their fallen.

"Rise," Jules commanded. They obeyed.

Together, they walked to the chateau, Rixon being on Hank's side, and Patch being on Jules's side. Both angels stared forward and walked with determination, just as they were instructed.

Inwardly, Hank wondered how long with would last. He had his concerns but they would have to wait. Upon entering the chateau, the gathered Nephilim watched in surprise as Hank and Jules walked in with their fallen walking behind them.

Various comments were made by a few of them.

"How are they obeying?"

"They are walking right behind them!"

"How are they not attacking?"

That caught Hank's reaction and he stopped, looking back at Rixon. His eyes met Hank's, no longer showing the same hatred as before.

"Will you ever take possession of my body again, fallen?" Hank asked him.

"No, my lord," Rixon answered.

The crowd gasped. And with that, Hank was not only satisfied, but impressed by this. He gestured to his fallen, while looking at the crowd.

"You see? We have nothing to fear any more. Soon we will have an army's worth of these fallen angels," Hank said, dropping his hand and walking around to the edge of where the crowd stood. "Your fallen angels will be yours! No longer will you need be afraid to walk the streets at the time of Cheshvan. The time of Cheshvan is over! Let them know they can no longer take possession of our bodies and leave us to rot! Go forth, my brothers and sisters! Find your defiled fallen angels and bring them back to this chateau as your eternal slaves and have this so called dark Cheshvan day noted in history as the day we nephilim are the superior race!" Hank's voice was loud and clear and carried across the chateau so that every nephil heard him.

"We are the superior race!" Jules added, beaming with pride. "And we will never let another fallen angel take possession of us, of our children and their children ever again!"

The crowd roared with applause, cheering for their commanders, yelling out insults to their fallen angels, while the fallen stood there, taking everything in. Hank turned back towards the fallen angels, his eyes slicing daggers into both of them.

"You," Hank said quietly under the roar of the crowd, knowing well that the fallen could still hear him clearly, "are now mine."

Jules, having joined in with the cheers, now forwarded back to Hank, clasping him around the shoulder. "We've done it!" he cheered.

Hank turned away from the fallen and looked at his blood relative. Inside, his thoughts were dark, but outside, he produced a smile. "Come. Let's show our fallen to their quarters."

* * *

The fallen were behind bars in their cosy dark cells situated in the dungeon. Hank favoured the site of seeing Rixon behind bars.

Jules stood beside Hank, along with Blakely, in front of the cells.

"This is where they'll sleep," Blakely said, fitting small pillows into their cells. Neither angel attacked, or even looked at Blakely in a threatening way. In fact, Patch grabbed his pillow and leaned down against the wall furthest away from the nephils and fitted his pillow behind his back. Rixon didn't touch his.

"Remarkable," Blakely said, moving away. "They will make fine warriors."

"They already are," Hank said, moving forward. "But I want to suggest something."

"Hmm?" Jules enquired.

Hank nodded towards Rixon. "I believe they should have cuffs on their wrists."

"Inner spikes?"

Hank shook his head. "No. They will require simple cuffs to learn not to touch. Anything. If they disobey, their wrists will be zapped with devilcraft."

"Unnecessary," Patch spoke.

Hank turned towards him just as Jules stepped forward.

"And why is that?" Jules spat.

"Our oath prevents us from disobeying you already," Rixon piped in. "What is the point of more wasted metal work?"

"I'd hardly call it wasted. It is to ensure you know exactly how things are to run around here. You will constantly be physically weaker than us, curtsey of devilcraft, and therefore will need to be taught how to behave as well. You will not touch anything - any object or weapon unless told to," Hank said.

Rixon turned away, while Patch stared at nothing in general.

"It's been a long day, commanders," Blakely said. "Best time for rest. You deserve it."

Jules turned after scowling at Patch, then clasped Blakely around the shoulders. "First, a drink is in order," he said, walking away with Blakely.

Hank went to turn, making it mere paces before hearing Rixon say one word that made Hank's heart freeze.

"Blythe."

Hank froze on spot, with his back to Rixon. Jules and Blakeley were oblivious to what was happening and continued on walking away.

"I know about her, _Barnabas_ ," Rixon sneered his former name. Hank slowly turned towards Rixon, seeing he was now standing up, and holding the bars. His eyes looked black and appeared soulless.

His mouth was twisted into a sinister snarl. "You think you could hide her from me?" he spat, throwing his head back and laughed. The laugh echoed through the entire dungeon and made Jules and Blakely stop. Jules turned completely towards Hank and realised he had not followed them.

"Hank?" he called.

Hank ignored him. He kept his cool eyes on Rixon. He noticed Patch never once moved from his spot against the wall.

"You don't know do you?" Rixon said, leaning against the bars once more, a mockery grin playing on his lips. "Eternity is boring by yourself, but to have already lost you entire family? Your wife, your boys? You managed to put all that away and find yourself another lovely farm girl," Rixon said, all mockery erased from his voice. "You didn't know that little Blythe is carrying a child, did you? Hmmm, now I wonder who the little one belongs to. Surely it can't be Harrison's."

Hank watched Rixon closely. His own breathing was controlled but inside, he felt like he was on fire.

He failed. He failed to keep Blythe safe and this entire time, his damned fallen knew of her. And not only that, Blythe was…pregnant? His lover with pregnant with his child, and the one to tell him was his own fallen?

He recalled all those months ago that Harrison met up with him just before Hank thought of the collar to tell him something. Was that what it was? That Blythe was carrying his child?

This was supposed to be a moment of pure happiness and awe for him, but all he felt was dread. He was to have another child. How would he protect both Blythe and the child, when he'd already failed to do so?

Hank heard Jules rush back towards Hank.

Rixon saw that too, which is why he leaned as close as he could through the bars to Hank and whisper, "When I see Blythe next, she won't remain living for much longer. And as for the child?" Rixon broke off, grinning.

Pure red hot hatred burned Hank's vision.

" _Suffocate!_ " Hank roared, and watched as Rixon fell back against the ground, choking.

"Enough, Barnabas!" Patch yelled, jumping to his feet and grasping the bars that separated him and his fellow fallen friend.

Rixon lay writhing against his collar, his bloodied hands attempting the scratch away the collar.

"Hank!" Jules shouted, finally reaching him. "What's happened?"

Hank ignored everyone. All of them were shouting at Hank, but all he did was watch Rixon choke against his collar with sick desire. He wanted him dead.

When Rixon stopped choking, everyone stopped yelling and silence filled the room. Rixon no longer moved.

Hank briefly though he killed his own fallen angel, but as moments flew by, Rixon's lungs began to work again.

Rixon awoke, again choking.

"Release," Hank whispered.

Rixon took a deep breath and another, while looking up at Hank with surprise and horror. Hank just killed his fallen, but he was brought back to life. Unfortunately.

Hank moved forward and crouched before Rixon's cell. Rixon, still heavily breathing, never looked away from Hank.

Hank spat into his cell at Rixon's feet.

"You disobeyed me, and therefore will pay the price," he said, turning to Blakely. "Open Patch's cell."

"What?" Jules said, frowning.

" _Open his cell!_ "

Hank was on the verge of doing it himself before Blakely came forward and shakily unlocked Patch's cell. "Come forward," he commanded Patch. He complied, although was confused.

Hank looked forward and stared at Rixon, who now looked warily at Hank. Hank nodded towards Patch without looking away from Rixon. "You disobeyed me. You not only will pay the price, but by my hand will I strike your dearest brother because of what you've just said to me," Hank spoke softly to Rixon, whose eyes now widened in horror.

"No, no, let me be the one-"

"Silence!" Hank commanded him. Rixon didn't say a word after that.

"Blakely," Hank said. "Retrieve the whip."

Rixon, unable to speak, was protesting loudly without being able to open his mouth. He unsteadily got to his feet and went to the bars, banging on them and attempting to break them.

After hesitating, Blakely went and brought back the whip that was enhanced with devilcraft strands. Hank took the whip from Blakely and went to Patch, who stared at the whip with dread.

Rixon continued bashing himself against the bars when Hank commanded Patch to stay in one spot. Hank walked behind Patch, and looked towards Rixon.

"Because of disobedience, Patch will get one hundred lashes," Hank said, and Rixon started uncontrollably to bash against the bars.

"Hank, what a remarkable idea," Jules commented, gesturing to Rixon. "He's going mad!" Jules, said laughing.

Hank stared at the back of Patch's perfectly shaped back, with only his scares staring back at Hank.

"Shall we get started?" Hank said, twisting the whip back and bringing it forward.

* * *

 **A/N: Well, what a fun chapter to write! Now, I do plan on bringing little miss Nora into the story in the next chapter! So stay tuned and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And also, please review!**

 **Fanks,**

 **ForsakenValk7 ~**


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